


No one's Casanova

by Janice_Lester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-14
Updated: 2011-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-27 04:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel doesn't understand exactly what Dean wants, and what's perhaps worse, he doesn't understand why he wants Dean in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No one's Casanova

**Author's Note:**

> Originally intended for the [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[kink_bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) April mini-challenge, for a Castiel-specific bingo card I made myself. Ultimately, I feel that the fic touches too lightly on most of the kinks, and I'm just generally unhappy with it. Having no idea, however, how to make it any better, I thought I'd post it in the hopes that others will see its good points rather than its faults. Con-crit is welcome, though. :-) Features some wing-porn, a measure of clueless!Cas, bottomy!Dean, and some light restraint (character held down). Beta'd by [](http://ellethill.livejournal.com/profile)[ellethill](http://ellethill.livejournal.com/). **Continuity/Spoilers:** vague season 6 setting, at least one mild spoiler for something approximately mid-season.

 

Castiel knows it’s a weakness, this unconstrained emotion, the way Dean draws his attention, distracts him from his mission and his best intentions. He also knows that this weakness should bother him more than it does. Castiel knows that, if he should be _feeling_ anything in response to Dean’s reckless choice not to do as Castiel requested and wait, it should be anger. He knows that what he is feeling is relief that Dean and his brother did in fact survive their ordeal even without Castiel’s intervention, and a cold, pervasive fear that this fragile creature will get himself killed at the very first opportunity. Again. That one day there will be no resurrection, no one to step in and bring Dean back to him, that Dean will become just another bright, isolated soul in Heaven whom angels are not supposed to visit. Because Castiel is not ambitious, he knows that he will never achieve a sufficiently vaunted position in Heaven to be granted the necessary power to resurrect whom he will. He knows this, and understands this, and is not confused by any of it.

What he does not know is why his vessel has begun responding to Dean in a new way. What he does not understand is why, in the aftermath of a potential disaster only narrowly averted, his frustrations are expressing themselves as tight, firm hands around Dean Winchester’s wrists, as the fervent desire to press him against the wall of this decrepit motel room and slide their mouths together in a way that is somehow more reminiscent of how it had felt to fight Dean in that alley than how it had felt to kiss the demon Meg in the bowels of Crowley’s labyrinthine dungeon complex. He does not understand. But he knows that Dean is “returning” the kiss, actively moving his mouth against Castiel’s in intriguing and complementary ways. He registers that, despite the impression given by so much human wriggling, Dean has made no serious attempt to free his arms from where Castiel has pinned them.

Is this invitation, he wonders, or mere acquiescence?

Dean closes his lips around one of Castiel’s, sucks at it. Then bites.

The sensation is piquant, intense. Castiel’s true form does not always possess a mouth, since he needs one only for speech and occasional pipe-playing, so he is unused to the idea of a mouth as something capable of feeling pleasure. Frowning in contemplation, Castiel pulls back to scan the familiar human face, so often incomprehensible despite all his centuries spent studying the many ways and words and moods of his Father’s most sublime creations. He has more layers and nuances of vision available to him, even in this form, than a human would, and yet he still has difficulty parsing the subtleties of expression and body language. It’s exciting, to think of all that Dean has left to teach him.

“I really, really fucking want to see that trench coat abandoned on the floor by my bed,” Dean growls, as if the style of Castiel’s attire has offended him gravely. His tongue emerges to swipe across his lower lip, and Castiel finds unanticipated difficulty in parsing the meaning from his words.

“So, we gonna do this?” Dean says, when the silence has apparently dragged on beyond his limited tolerance.

Confusion swamps Castiel in an instant. He isn’t sure what “this” is, isn’t sure what he’s doing or what he wants. Just knows that right now, he is glad of Sam’s absence, certain that he wishes to remain close to Dean and that this would be unlikely if they were no longer alone here. Castiel swallows, feels his head tilt in the beginning of a mannerism that does not make sense in this form. It feels appropriate to release Dean’s wrists so that he may raise his hands to the lapels of Jimmy Novak’s trench coat and employ the unfamiliar motion required to begin slipping it free from the suit jacket and the body beneath.

Dean’s mouth is open, and he has begun breathing through it in soft, shallow puffs.

Castiel drops the garment obediently onto the worn carpet tiles which comprise this room’s checkered floor covering. He does not watch it fall, but Dean does, and presently he turns his gaze back on Castiel for what would appear to be a close inspection.

“Weird how much smaller you look without it,” Dean says, mouth quirking wryly. “The way it flaps about, it always makes me think of wings.” And he steps forward to put his arms around Castiel, dragging his palms down over his shoulders and back as though to confirm the absence of such.

“It pleases you, the thought that I have wings?”

Dean shrugs as if he does not like to examine the idea too closely. “Novelty value, I guess. You’re supernatural, and yet you’re not evil.”

Castiel has to smile a little himself at that. The human division of God’s creations, and God’s creations’ creations, into categories marked “natural” and “supernatural” is entirely arbitrary and not, as far as he can tell, terribly sensible. “I am not,” he agrees mildly.

“You’re also not anyone’s Casanova, huh, Cas?”

The reference is familiar, but Castiel is uncertain whether it is intended to mock. He steps in closer, deliberately invading what Dean has termed his “personal space”. Dean lets him approach, lets him lean in until their mouths are a mere hand’s breadth apart. Then he retreats, abruptly, a single step. There’s a brightness in his eyes Castiel reads as challenge, and that’s motivation enough to push him back to the wall and kiss him again, more urgently than before. Dean’s hands scrabble between them, and then he is loosening the blue tie, working the jacket off Castiel’s shoulders until it catches around his elbows, pulling roughly at the little plastic catches on his shirt. His tongue licks into Castiel’s mouth, and he emits a tiny sound of encouragement when Castiel, too, begins putting tongue as well as lips to use.

It’s a shock, the first contact between Dean’s hand and the suddenly-bare flesh of Castiel’s chest, the sensation intense and unfamiliar. He has cut signs into this flesh, has pressed his own bloody hand against it to banish himself and his enemies to parts unknown, he has even lain, powerless, weak, in a hospital bed while a nurse bathed him. But he has never been touched like this, and his back arches at the conflict of twin instincts to draw away and to lean in for more.

“Cas?” Dean murmurs against his mouth.

“Dean?”

Fingertips rasp across his stubbled jaw, and that, too, is strangely exhilarating.

“Why aren’t we naked yet?”

 _Oh_. Undressing is a pleasantly straightforward task after all this confusion, and Castiel sets to it with rather more than human speed. Dean watches in apparent appreciation. Then he braces himself against the wall, lifts one foot up onto the opposing thigh, and begins slowly unlacing his boot. It proves difficult not to help, not to hurry him along, and Castiel lasts only a few long, breathless moments before resisting the urge loses all appeal.

It takes more than the wave of a hand, but not _much_ more, and then he has a nude Dean Winchester in his embrace.

“Kudos for the angel-fu, man.”

This utterance will not resolve into any form of meaningful communication, but the tone is appreciative. Though possibly it is Castiel’s vessel’s left buttock he is appreciating, given how thoroughly he’s examining it with his hand. “We should relocate to the bed,” he suggests, not entirely certain of the most fashionable procedure at this point in time and space.

“That isn’t going to work,” Dean says.

Castiel is completely at a loss. “You’d prefer the floor? The bathtub, perhaps?”

Dean makes a subvocal sound of negation. “The bed’s fine. I meant… Look, I don’t wanna talk about it. Read my mind or whatever. What do you see?”

Castiel looks into his eyes, permits himself to read just enough surface thoughts that he can understand. The images are coarse, frenetic, unambiguous. And exciting. His breath shudders through him and his _want_ grows as if simply recognising what he wants feeds the wanting. “Myself. Pursuing sexual congress with you. Emphatically.” He frowns. “Almost… forcefully?”

Dean groans and waves an artless hand. “I can’t do soft and slow and gentle with dudes. So if that’s what you want…”

“On the bed,” he says, decided. “Now.”

That look of challenge returns to Dean’s eyes. Bare but for his tattoo, his accidental brand from Castiel’s hand, and his various scars acquired since his rescue from Hell, Dean Winchester looks somehow younger, more innocent… and yet still every bit the warrior. Castiel grabs him tight, calls on the tiniest hint of Grace, and tosses them both onto the bed, which squeaks in protest but remains intact while they bounce.

Dean’s laugh is half snarl, and an instant later he is on top, staring straight into Castiel’s eyes as he reaches between them to—

 _Oh. That._ What had he called it? An “angel-boner”? It is certainly… sensitive. And from his earlier, graphic thoughts, Castiel knows that Dean wants him to use this “erection” to…

Dean fights his efforts to reverse their positions, but Castiel senses the struggles are designed simply to enhance Dean’s pleasure, and are not cause for concern. He rolls Dean under him, grinds down so that their erections bump and rub together. It’s pleasant, and made more so with a kiss, and the scrape of Dean’s fingernails down his back. Those green eyes are hidden beneath the delicate lids, and Castiel wonders if he should close his eyes also. But the sight of Dean has always fascinated him, and he does not like to give it up.

It is also pleasant to seize Dean’s wrists once more, pin his arms to the mattress. The next thing Castiel kisses is the protective tattoo which has kept this human’s precious body safe from demons, if not angels.

“There’s some stuff in the nightstand,” Dean says, sounding impatient. “The kissing can wait ‘til you’re _taking_ this vessel.”

Dean is, Castiel realises slowly, staring, merely making a crude sexual innuendo. The realisation isn’t immediate, however, and Castiel’s mouth has fallen open at the thought of--of...

It is unthinkable. He should not think it. Should certainly not desire it. Dean is not his vessel. Dean has every hope of dying, many years from now, a vessel still unclaimed. Castiel should not enjoy even a moment’s fantasy of what it would be like to control, and be contained by, this beautiful thing that has been intended for one of his betters. He sighs, closes his mouth, and scrabbles blindly in the nightstand for whatever “stuff” it is Dean wants.

“It’s a little tube,” Dean offers helpfully, when Castiel eyes the Gideon’s Bible he has unearthed and is at a loss to understand how this is supposed to aid them in any way. “Like toothpaste comes in. Guys use it when they--” The strange expression he pulls is apparently supposed to complete the sentence. Castiel continues to search, and presently he does, indeed, come up with a squeezable tube of some squishy material.

The particular combination of large letters on the tube is unfamiliar, presumably a brand name, but the phrase “personal lubricant” printed below successfully conveys the idea that this is an oil intended to facilitate comfortable penetration.

“First, you need to--” Dean’s face screws up in dismay, and he brings up the hand Castiel had to free to access the nightstand, claims the tube. “I guess I should do that part. Get off me a minute, you horny angel.” And he snickers.

Castiel shifts, even while he attempts to puzzle out why the phrase “horny angel” is the source of such ostensible merriment for the human. Watches as Dean bends and raises his legs, then spreads some of the tube’s contents over his fingers before reaching down to work one into his anus. It’s a strangely appealing sight, Dean working himself perfunctorily open with one finger, then two, then three, the look of intense concentration on his face, the tip of his tongue protruding slightly from the corner of his mouth.

“I’m assuming angels don’t carry STDs?”

Castiel blinks, concentration focused on Dean’s glistening hand as he draws it up to claim a tissue from the box on the nightstand and wipes it clean. “You refer to disease I might give you, or you me?” he decides. “Disease cannot attach itself to this vessel while I reside in it. There is no risk from or to me in that regard.”

All signs of amusement have vanished from Dean’s face. He looks almost angry, but Castiel cannot be sure.

“Good,” Dean says, and tosses the tube so that Castiel is forced to extend a hand to catch it. “Now fuck me.”

Castiel is only too pleased to comply.

As he is sliding his penis into Dean, it is impossible not to think of how it would feel to slide his Grace into Dean, so deep they could never be parted. This ought to disturb him, he is sure. But the pleasure burns bright, blots out everything alarming or melancholy. Dean’s low groan is beautiful to him.

It seems impossible, but the pleasure of that first inward slide is exceeded by the pleasure resulting from his first withdrawal and second inward push. Dean wraps his legs around Castiel’s and rocks up, his tense mouth falling open as they begin to form conscious rhythm out of instinctive motion. Somehow, it all gets so much better when he gathers up Dean’s wrists again and holds the man in place while he begins to use him more roughly.

“God, yessss,” Dean breathes.

“Blasphemy,” Castiel scolds mildly.

“Bite me.”

It is much preferable to kiss him instead, and for a while there is only this, bodies rutting together, lips brushing, tongues tangling, the muscular human body growing gradually sweat-slick beneath him.

And then Dean rips his hands free, as if he cannot help attempting to struggle free of any hold, even a comforting one, and his arms lift until his fingers can trace strange patterns down Castiel’s shoulders, over his back, tickling along his spine in a way that makes him arch and fuck harder.

“Wings,” Dean says, panting, in between a pair of kisses scattered along Castiel’s stubbled jaw. “Can I see? Feel?”

Castiel frowns. He cannot show Dean his wings as they would appear in Heaven; the effect would be… damaging. But he can allow the representation he has shown before—a version of his wings scaled down to fit this small human frame—to become tangible for a time. He closes his eyes and concentrates on making it so.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Dean groans. “They’re so… you’re so…”

Reverent human fingers explore his feathers, and Castiel _shudders_. These wings are the only part of his true form which map onto his current body directly, without the dulling shield of the vessel between himself and outside stimuli. As a result, the sensations Dean’s careful, stroking hands incite are intense, and Castiel sobs with it, losing all art or rhythm in his strokes as he focuses on arranging his wings, folding them around their joined bodies so that they connect with a human shoulder here, a foot there.

Dean whimpers and begs, swearing and bucking. It’s no surprise; he’s always been very demanding. Castiel can’t afford to give voice to his own craving, let alone to make demands; he cannot claim Dean as his vessel no matter how much he wishes it. But their physical joining, this thing Dean calls “fucking”, delighting in the vulgarity of the term? He can do this, have this, claim this.

 _“Mine,”_ he growls, and suddenly pleasure bursts through him, blinding, overwhelming, fierce. It begins in his belly and penis and spreads rapidly, making his vessel tremble and quake. When it ebbs, leaving a warm, quiet euphoria in its wake, he finds Dean staring up at him, a look of satisfaction on his youthful features though Castiel knows the human has not yet achieved the height of sexual pleasure here.

“First orgasm?” Dean says gently. His fingers move more softly among Castiel’s feathers now, a soothing touch rather than an exciting one.

Castiel supposes that ‘orgasm’ is what it must indeed have been. “Yes.” Yet again, his studies had given him no real understanding of how a particular human experience would actually _feel_.

Dean _twitches_. “Awesome. Hey, you’re still hard.”

It sounds like a question. Castiel frowns. “Is that not what—”

“It’s fine,” Dean puts in quickly. “It’s great. Now shut up and fuck me.”

Castiel complies, and this time, with his self-control less severely compromised by unfamiliar pleasure, he is better able to tune his movements to Dean’s reactions, Dean’s desires. He sees Dean throw his head back, mouth wide and panting, various muscles tensing as if he’s reaching desperately for something, groaning low and rough as he undulates urgently against Castiel.

He laughs when he realises he is fucking Dean speechless, and doesn’t immediately recognise the sound.

It’s a very uplifting thing, watching Dean give himself up to pleasure. It’s something he embraces whole-heartedly, without reservation or argument or doubt. It makes him beautiful even as his expression twists into something helpless and almost pained, as his hands slip from Castiel’s wings to grasp instead at his back as if desperate to tug him even closer, deeper. Climax makes his whole body spasm, his eyes squeeze shut. Has he ever been more fascinating?

The odour of semen is not unfamiliar, but Castiel has never scented it so fresh.

“I don’t cuddle,” Dean announces, wincing as Castiel softens his penis and slips it free.

“I don’t believe I ever have, either.”

Dean pulls a face that is somehow not _quite_ annoyance.

But for all his protestations, once Castiel has cleaned them with a trifling show of Grace, Dean remains close, yawning and toying idly with one of Castiel’s primaries until it seems best to fold the wings away into that other realm. Dean curls against him then, body tense as if waiting for rebuke. When Castiel offers none, the human tucks in close, already fading towards sleep.

 _So, there it was,_ Castiel muses, in the near-privacy of his own head. _That was the thing humans do which we do not. That was lovemaking._ Though, on reflection, he doubts Dean Winchester thinks of it as such.

Perhaps he will ask him, when he awakens.

Or perhaps that would be unwise?

***END***

  



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